


the Making and Breaking of Legends

by ClassyGreyDove (justamostlyabandonedficaccount)



Series: how many shrinks to fix a lightbulb? (less than it takes to fix me) [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, One Shot, as far as I kno, burn-out, viktor is possibly bipolar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27850662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justamostlyabandonedficaccount/pseuds/ClassyGreyDove
Summary: The higher you are, the harder you fall.Viktor falls, but only ever out of sight.There are different kinds of falling, and only a few are permanent.
Series: how many shrinks to fix a lightbulb? (less than it takes to fix me) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038614
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	the Making and Breaking of Legends

Falling.

Falling is something Viktor is very familiar with.

The cameras never catch it, nor do the judges.

Falling is for when he is alone. Falling is for when he is alone and can only feel the emptiness of the rink, echoed in his heart, set to the music of the scrape of blades against the ice.

Falling is inevitable, for what comes up must go down. Somehow, however, the idea of others witnessing his falls seem both a fate far worse than death and a temptation more alluring than any magic spell.

Sometimes Viktor lets himself consider, wonder—peer over the edge of his pedestal and sway just a bit more forward—but he doesn’t. His fear and rational drilled into him by Yakov and society is far stronger than the echoes of reckless desire and hopelessness.

So Viktor rises, rises to the top, rises and crests and always, always falls. But always, always behind closed doors.

* * *

Inspiration comes and goes in waves.

He’s euphoric, spinning on the ice til he’s dizzy, marathoning quads and pouring over music choices late into the night. Choreography spills out of his mind and into life, step sequences and themes overtaking his dreams. He laughs and grins and smiles. It’s beginning to hurt, the smiles are so wide and constant. He’s at the top, the crest of the wave, and everything’s a little more fast-paced, a little more urgent, though on the outside everything seems the same. The choreographies are keeping him up late, now, as he stares up at the ceiling and tries to ignore the little voice that kept asking “Is it surprising? Is it? Is it enough? Really?” But now his inspiration is tainted with just a little bit of stress, a little bit of worry, and Viktor thinks and thinks and skates and skates and the smiles pull wide at his mouth—

He knew it was coming.

He falls.

Like that children’s poem with the egg that fell from a wall, Viktor falls and smashes into millions of pieces.

* * *

His day starts with heavy weights and invisible chains tying him to his bed. He hears his alarm, blaring in his ear, and ignores it. The ringing of his phone doesn’t end. He mutes it. He thinks of his routine, of practice, and recoils at the very thought. Viktor tries to get up—he doesn’t. He lies there and stares at the walls of his bedroom, as lifeless as a corpse.

The alarm goes off again, and Viktor thinks of lifting his arm—a meter, it’s just a meter away—and hitting the snooze button. It’s a nice thought, but his body lies there uselessly instead. He doesn’t know how long it is until someone’s banging on his door, but Viktor stares at his wall and waits distantly until Yakov—or Yuri, he’s been trying to weasel out a program from Viktor for his debut recently—goes away. Whoever it is leaves after about twenty minutes, which he only knows because the alarm clock is facing him.

Viktor stares at the wall some more. Distantly, he hears a whimper and scratching at his door. He realizes, in some foggy part of his brain, that he forgot to let Makkachin into his room last night. Technically, Makkachin’s supposed to sleep in her doggy bed in the living room, but Viktor almost never forces her to sleep out there, both dog and man preferring her presence curled up at the foot of Viktor’s too-large bed. Makkachin needs to be walked, he remembers, and even his unfortunate slump won’t get in the way of making sure Makka’s needs are met, luckily.

Though the task feels as insurmountable as landing a quad axel, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. Viktor stares at the floor. He hears Makkachin whimper again. Finally, he’s turning his alarm off—for the first time this morning—and opening the door. Makka immediately perks up, wagging her tail excitedly. Her eyes peer up at him adoringly. She runs to the end of the hall and back, jumping up on his legs. Viktor gently pushes her down and rubs her head, already exhausted. He moves to the kitchen and refills Makkachin’s food and water bowls. He leans heavily over the counter. The sound of Makkachin’s chewing fills the silent apartment.

Viktor wants to get back in bed. It’s too far though, so he settles with sprawling over the counter...

—And Makkachin’s cold nose brings him back. She’s nuzzling his leg, and Viktor realizes he doesn’t know how long he’s been sprawled out over the counter. He has a crick in his neck.

Viktor pushes himself up, like he’s forgotten he doesn’t have the energy—

Makkachin woofs, and Viktor shuffles down the hall to get changed, before realizing if he goes back into his bedroom he’ll collapse on his bed and not get out again. He decides to walk in his pajamas. It’s fine. He has warm boots and a thick jacket by the door. He turns around, heads slowly towards the door, pausing against the door frame until Makkachin urges him forward. He’s in the middle of slipping on his coat when he hears the door rattle. The handle turns—it’s Yakov, he was the only one who knew where Viktor kept his spare key—and Viktor takes the opportunity to collapse against the nearest wall again.

The door sings open.

“Viktor.” It’s definitely Yakov, and judging by his face, he’s a stressful mixture of angry and concerned. “You haven’t been answering your phone.”

Viktor gives a half-hearted shrug. “Well, you know me, Yakov, surely it’s not that much of a surprise.”

Yakov’s concern gives way to irritation.“Maybe so, but it is a surprise for you to miss practice. Your next competition in a month - neither you nor I have time for your “breaks.” You are an _adult_ , Viktor. Act like one.”

Viktor wonders what his usual response would be to Yakov’s reprimand. Whatever it is, Viktor can’t muster up even the slightest hint of it.

Yakov falls silent, staring him down.

Viktor stares back. He wonders how obvious his state is, with his half-on jacket and pajamas and unbrushed hair and slumped posture. He wonders if Yakov even cares. It’s not Yakov’s job to care—it’s his job to train Olympic skaters.

Yakov breaks first. “Viktor,” he starts, gruff and awkwardly, “You have not called in sick.”

Viktor hums. “No, it’s…I’m just tired, Yakov.” He wants to put “I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow” on the end of it. He doesn’t.

Yakov coughs. “Well—I expect you at the rink tomorrow Viktor. You get the day off to recover. Don’t eat any pastries, you’re too old too get away with cheating your diet.”

Viktor nods wordlessly and, after another pause, closes the door with a burst of energy. Back to the door, he listens as Yakov’s heavy steps echo down the hall. He slides down until he’s sitting against the door. Makkachin pads over and places her head in his lap.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

* * *

They both know what this is.

One day’s break has turned into two, has turned into three, has turned into a week. Viktor can feel his muscles deteriorating from lack of exercise, can feel his muscles stiffen. He’s too tired to care. Yakov stops by every day, but it’s clear Viktor is not getting any better.

Viktor has heard the stories, stories of junior champions falling from grace, with the gold around their necks dissolving into last place standings and quiet retirement.

Viktor has heard other stories, too. He’s heard of seniors who wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, because skating was all they had. It always ends in crippling injuries, pain, and failure.

He’s heard of skaters giving up, quitting diets and putting off practice until it was too late. He’s seen skaters spiral, scores pulling them down as their bodies seem to way heavier and heavier every performance. Viktor’s been in the game so long he’s seen everything: drug scandals, breakdowns, sabotage and press horror stories. It all leads to or is caused by the same thing.

Burn-out.

Viktor, when he was young and bright and stupid, was ignorant to such a danger. He was winning, after all, and how can such a thing happen to someone so successful? No one would believe it possible.

In hindsight, Viktor thinks his success only made it inevitable.

Monday, Yakov finally manages to drag Viktor out of his house and to the rink. Stretches are slow and painful. The warm-ups are heavy and clumsy. Viktor thinks about just laying down on the ice. He hasn’t done that since he was sixteen.

Finally, he’s skating his short program—Yakov has decided to start him off easy, seeing his already lackluster performance. He skates, arms like weights and legs moving through molasses. When it comes time for quads, or even some of the triples, he does doubles instead. It’s that or fall. Yakov frowns, tells him to try a triple flip.

Viktor falls.

* * *

Like the tide, the wave that pulls out, must roll back in. One moment he’s going to bed without even bothering to brush his teeth, and the next he’s waking up and thinking of an absolutely spectacular idea for his long program that he absolutely must try within the next twenty-four hours what do you mean Yakov of course I can skate the full long progam today and actually I was thinking about adding another jump here and maybe a—

* * *

Viktor’s lucky. He doesn’t fall again the rest of the month. His quad flips land smoothly, his axels are a breeze.His arms feel light, graceful and expressive. His legs feel strong, confident, and stable. This might be his greatest season yet, he thinks.

He stubbornly doesn’t think about the week of missed practice.

His routine shapes itself until it’s a masterpiece. Viktor skates, and the judges and the cameras and the fans catch no mistake. It’s perfect.

Nobody sees Viktor fall. He’s riding another wave, riding it all the way to the top as he smashes yet another record and appears yet again at the top of the podium. He’s on the top of the world, but…Viktor wonders if it always felt so empty. As he ascends, Viktor pastes on a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i do not have bipolar disorder, though I have experienced depression. its up to you to decide if viktor is bipolar in this or not.
> 
> Pls let me know if I made any skating-related mistakes. I have no experience with ice skating or its competitions.


End file.
